


lost in you tonight

by Anonymous



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ash Lynx has been gone for six months.  Life moves on - but Yut-Lung never does.





	lost in you tonight

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to explore the concept of yut-lung having unrequired feelings for ash, so this fic was born. title and lyrics from "tear the world down" by we are the fallen

_My loveless life  
I'm lost in you tonight _

 

The clock strikes 1:00 a.m. when Yut-Lung pours his third glass of wine of the night.  

He’s pleasantly buzzed as it is, all foggy vision and warmth curling in his veins, leaving his body relaxed where he’s draped himself on his sofa.  Now would be the perfect stopping point, but a gnawing ache in his chest compels his hand to tip the bottle one more time, filling his glass to the brim with crisp rosé. Of course, that’s what he said with the last glass, and _look where you are now._

Pushing the thought away into the hazy recesses of his mind, he settles back on the lavish couch and its nest of soft blankets and takes a ginger sip. A a spare drop trickles just past his lips, which he chases with his tongue, lapping up the hint of strawberry.   _Sloppy_ , he chastises himself while sinking further in the plush sea of blankets and pillows, exhaling a long, soft sigh.

He should go to bed, but he knows nothing will await him there but countless hours spent tossing and turning, desperately chasing after the sweet release of sleep.  Some nights are just like that - restless, ugly monsters breathing down his neck, ready to tear him apart if he so much as lies in bed and closes his eyes. The bouts of anxiety-laden insomnia aren’t uncommon; he’s spent far too many nights awake in his room, haunted by visions of blood pooling around porcelain skin, matting in ink-black hair as the distant sound of his brothers’ cackling drowns out his screams.

Yut-Lung’s life is full of skeletons and ghosts; he knows them well.

But it is not their ghosts haunting him tonight.

He takes another drink of wine, deeper this time, swallows it hard.  There’s a bitter aftertaste on his tongue, sharp like poison.

Today marks six months.

Some days, he can almost forget that Ash Lynx is dead - the world turns as always, bloody business carries on as usual.  Other nights, the tragedy weighs upon his shoulders like the Earth upon Atlas, an unbearable burden that crushes him until he’s gasping for breath, choking out the syllables of a dead man’s name.  The fact plays in his head like a broken record, a sickening lullaby that mocks him: _Ash is dead, Ash is dead, Ash is dead._

Yut-Lung worries his bottom lip as he tucks his legs up to his chest, curling in on himself as if to protect himself from the unwanted, regrettable truth.  He once told Ash that his weakness for his loved ones would kill him, and he hates that he was right, hates that Ash died _for_ and _because_ of love.  Ash had survived stabbings, beatings, gunfire, and more abuse than any teenager should have ever experienced - he should have been untouchable.

And yet.

Innocent smiles, soft brown eyes, and a bleeding heart.  The desire to go on no longer, to free himself from the hell that Yut-Lung can’t escape, knowing that his love is safe.  That’s what killed Ash Lynx.

_The goddamn fool._

“Ash,” he murmurs, more sigh than name, a mournful groan dedicated to ears that have long since gone deaf.

_It didn’t have to end this way.  I tried to stop you._

Oh, how he _tried._ So many days, so many _weeks_ spent doing nothing but trying to prevent Ash from walking into the minefield created by his own reckless love.  That’s why he dedicated endless efforts to kill Eiji - to keep Ash alive, to break him free from the shackles of sentiment so he could fulfill his true destiny as the greatest gang leader, the greatest challenge, Yut-Lung has ever encountered.

 _Well,_ his drunk brain supplies, _that’s not the_ only _reason, is it?_

The thought makes Yut-Lung’s stomach churn, acid burning the back of his throat as he squeezes his glass tighter.  He’s rarely honest with himself, but now, alone in his house and drunkenly clutching a half-empty glass of wine, he can acknowledge there was something _else_ behind his obsessive need to see Eiji dead and have Ash’s attention entirely on him.  Something deeper than rivalry, something small and vulnerable and _wanting_ ; something he has never allowed himself to want before, and for a moment, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could have a taste of it.

He never forgot the way Ash looked at Eiji, that first night he met them - such open fondness for each other, adoration painting their every movement, their every touch, until they created a masterpiece - the kind meant for an art museum, the kind he never could interpret.

He never forgot the way Eiji spat at Yut-Lung that someone like _him_ would never understand why Ash cared for Eiji the way he did.  

Someone like _him._ Yut-Lung could read between the lines.

Unloving. Unloveable.

_But you wanted to understand. You really did._

His vision spins, emotion welling in his chest until his eyes prickle with angry, burning tears.  With his inhibitions and pride cast to the wayside by a drunken vulnerability, he knows this to be the truth, as sour and hard to swallow as old milk: if Eiji was out of the picture, perhaps things would be different.  

With no doe-eyed distraction, maybe Ash would finally see Yut-Lung for the truly formidable opponent he is, and he’d gladly, eagerly, rise to the occasion.  They’d stand on opposing sides but even playing grounds, the kind of rivalry Yut-Lung has always dreamed of - the kind that would give him something to look forward to, to live for, in the wake of his successful revenge on his brothers.

Or maybe, in time, the tendrils of tenderness within Ash could be stirred to life once more, like the reawakening blossoms in spring.  Maybe he’d rekindle his steadfast devotion and those soft green eyes would turn on something, _someone,_ else.

Chest tightening, all his suppressed pain and loneliness bubbles to the surface, a toxic brew. He thinks of Ash, his confident grace and electric personality that seemed to jolt all who encountered him, Yut-Lung including; he thinks of Ash, the life fading from his pretty face as he died alone, and a howling beast claws at Yut-Lung’s empty, aching soul, desperation come to life.

_You wanted to know what it felt like -  to be looked at in such a way. Like you were really being seen, like you mattered to someone._

_Maybe -_

He squeezes his eyes shut, cuts off the thought before it can fully bloom.

It doesn’t matter what he wanted.  It’s too late. Ash is dead, and now the city has to learn how to move on without him, as does Yut-Lung.  But some vacancies are not so easily filled, evident in the increasing number of street battles downtown and the deep, raw anguish in Yut-Lung’s chest that threatens to eat him alive.

Dropping his wine glass to the floor, he presses a hand to his mouth and swallows back a sob, tears spilling freely down his cheeks now.   _You fucking idiot_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he’s cursing Ash for his own mortality or himself for living in a delusion for so long.

An early grave.  A lonely, joyless life.

How could he ever think either of them were destined for something greater than this?

A fresh round of tears start dripping on the couch when he hears the thud of the front door and murmurs of his bodyguards.

 _Sing_. He had almost forgotten.

In light of the recent battles downtown, Sing had left earlier in the evening to pay a visit to Alex and the rest of Ash’s old gang, both to reaffirm political ties and learn more about the terf scuffles.  Yut-Lung had planned to be in bed by the time Sing came home, not wanting him or anyone else to see him like this - inebriated, crying, eyeliner smudged, every inch a disaster. For a moment, he considers trying to make a run for his bedroom, but he knows that will only end with him drunkenly tripping over himself and face-planting on the carpet, so he reconsiders.

 _Whatever_ , he decides, slumping further into the couch. _Let him see me._

_Maybe he’ll leave you at last, just like all the rest._

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Yut-Lung goes stiff when Sing opens the door.  Sing halts, brow furrowing as he hesitates in the doorway. Yut-Lung watches how Sing’s gaze goes from Yut-Lung, to the wine bottle, to the discarded glass, back to Yut-Lung again, his shoulders tensing and expression going flat, and Yut-Lung is too intoxicated to make sense of it.  Jaw tensing, Yut-Lung gives Sing his best glare, all poison daggers, daring Sing to make a snide comment about Yut-Lung’s state of affairs. His body goes rigid, shoulders tense and hunched as he coils into himself. _Be careful_ , his body says, _I bite._

Sing opens his mouth only to close it with a clack of his teeth.  The tension in his body eases, and Sing’s shoulders drop, wilting like a flower without sun.  It’s not what Yut-Lung expects, and he can only watch carefully, cautiously - though not without a faint pang in his heart at the sight.

“Hey,” Sing says at last, voice dull, tired.

Yut-Lung doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just gives a brief, curt nod, never breaking eye contact.

“Can I sit?”

A momentary flash of indecision.  Yut-Lung wants to say no, Sing _can’t_ , because Yut-Lung is sure he looks pathetic enough as it is from a distance away, and he doesn’t need Sing to see it up close.  But Sing looks so tired, and something in Yut-Lung, beyond the prickly defense mechanism he wears like a second skin, is calling out to him, screaming _don’t leave me alone_ , and so he nods again, nibbling his bottom lip to swallow back the emotion.

Sing doesn’t waste time in closing the door behind him and crossing the room in even strides, and before Yut-Lung knows it, Sing’s collapsed next to him on the couch with a heavy sigh, like he’s been holding his breath all night and only now feels safe enough to release it.

Yut-Lung knows the feeling.

For a few minutes, they just sit together in heavy, loaded silence, neither moving as they just breathe, in and out and in and out.  Still curled up with his knees pressed to his chest, Yut-Lung goes rigid again, acutely aware of how close Sing is (inches away, Yut-Lung can practically feel the heat radiating off Sing’s form), and how Sing must surely be mocking him, if not visibly than at least in his head.   _What kind of leader are you?  Having a drunken cry over a man who never looked your way - you useless, stupid thing._

He closes his eyes, forces away the moisture threatening to build again.  When he opens his eyes, he sucks in a breath, gathers his courage, and dares to finally turn his head just a fraction so he can peek at Sing.  He’s braced himself for the worst - smug smirk, annoyance, disappointment, disgust -

What he sees instead makes his lips part on a silent _oh_.

He almost doesn’t recognize the boy next to him - Sing looks _exhausted._ The youthful shine he always seems to exude has faded, grown dull from the edges of weariness, from being run down to his bones.  There’s bags beneath his eyes, ones he’s far too young to bear, all the more noticable against his pale skin (when did he get so pale?), and Yut-Lung’s stomach twists unpleasantly like wringing hands.

_You’re not the only one who’s suffering._

The realization is slow to form, but once born, sobers him with its severity and poison-prick truth.  Yut-Lung has always admired Sing’s ability to persevere through adversity, to maintain a calm, level head on his shoulders despite the many curve balls life has thrown at him the past few years.  And oh, how many there were, starting with Shorter’s death; but Sing did what he had to, stepping into shoes that were too large for him, making his own path, transforming into a leader worth following.

And just when things started to normalize ( _just when he said he’d stay by your side_ ), the world turned upside down and has never righted itself since.

The news filtered into Chinatown like a hive of angry hornets.

Lao is dead.

Ash is missing.

_Ash is dead._

A fallen idol, destroyed by a fallen brother.  Sing, left alone to navigate a sea of agony and guilt as he tried to keep the peace between two angry, hurting gangs, mending wounds even as his remained opened, bleeding and suffering in silence.

Bleeding, even now, beneath the strong face Sing wears day in and day out.

_You’re not the only one in mourning._

Yut-Lung’s face flushes with red-hot guilt as he turns away.  He doesn’t have the right to look at Sing; he doesn’t even have the right to _sit_ next to him, wallowing in his own selfish, pitiful misery.   _Sing has lost far more than you, and what have you done for him? Nothing. No wonder_ he _didn’t want you, you self-absorbed wretch.  You should be ashamed._

 _I am_ , Yut-Lung thinks, tears spilling past his eyes, dribbling down his cheeks.   _I am._

There’s a rustle of fabric, and Yut-Lung looks up just in time to see Sing sit up straighter, concerned etched in those warm eyes.

“H-Hey,” Sing murmurs, voice rough. He lifts one hand out toward Yut-Lung - only to pause mid-air, gently drop it back on his knee.

Yut-Lung blinks, vision blurry with tears.  As bold and brash as Sing could be, he always exhibits caution when touching Yut-Lung, even something as simple as a hand on his shoulder, like he knows Yut-Lung’s defense is made of spines and barbs, that he may not want to be touched.  Sing’s always been considerate like that, Yut-Lung thinks, and the guilt drills deeper into his guts because _you don’t deserve him, he’s suffering and he still puts your comfort first, he’s the nicest fucking person you’ve met and you don’t deserve him._

One look into Sing’s eyes, the tired bags juxtaposed with the alert concern, and something within Yut-Lung snaps.

With a reedy whine, Yut-Lung uncoils himself, legs sprawling out as he allows his body to drop to the side, until he’s pressed against Sing’s arm, a solid, warm line of comfort.  Sing doesn’t shrug him off, doesn’t really move at all, and Yut-Lung should be grateful for just this steady contact, but a growing, wild panic sets in, urges him to seek total shelter in the midst of this storm.  Shuffling back, he lifts Sing’s arm until there’s enough space to crawl closer, and only once he’s properly tucked against Sing’s side does he lower his arm, so it encases him in a light hold.

If he had less alcohol in his system, he might have been embarrassed with how forward and needy he’s being, acting like a child clinging desperately to a parent after a nightmare.  But he doesn’t care, not now - because he’s drunk and Ash’s dead and Sing’s always been the quiet in the storm.

The hand on Yut-Lung’s side gently squeezes him, fingers trailing up and down in slow, comforting sweeps, and Yut-Lung exhales a shaky breath, presses his face into Sing’s shirt and inhales his familiar scent, allowing it to soothe him.  There’s a soft weight against his hair - Sing resting his head against his, still petting, still keeping Yut-Lung tightly against him, and for the first time in a long time, Yut-Lung allows himself to be small, to be held, to be protected.

Yut-Lung’s not sure how long they stay like that, curled together on the luxurious sofa, with only the sounds of his occasional sniffles breaking the silence.  He alternates between an uneasy calm when Sing rubs reassuring circles against his side, and a growing desperation crashing over him like an avalanche when he remembers the reality of their situation ( _Ash is dead, Ash is dead_ ), but Sing just quietly hushes him with his tongue like one would a skittish beast.  Yut-Lung forces himself to breathe slowly, mindlessly nuzzling against Sing’s collarbone and neck as he pulls himself together.

Gradually, the gulping panic subsides.  Yut-Lung breathes quietly against Sing’s shirt and neck, resting one hand on Sing’s chest and feeling the constant, life-affirming heartbeat beneath his fingers, a reminder that they’re here; they’ll be okay.

Another minute passes before Sing speaks.

“Do you want to -”

“ _No._ ”

Yut-Lung bristles in Sing’s arms, the spiny line of defense returned.  He can only assume Sing was about to ask something embarrassing like if he wanted to talk about what they were doing or about his _feelings_ , and Yut-Lung would honestly rather swallow glass than do either of those things right now.

Sing hums, and there’s a lil to it - a flicker of his usual, teasing personality.

“Well, I _was_ gonna ask if you wanted to have some mango pudding with me, but guess I’ll have to eat all myself.”

 _Mango pudding_ is all it takes for Yut-Lung to perk.  He pushes himself up, messy hair falling into his face as he gawks at Sing, who’s wearing this mischievous little smirk that Yut-Lung wants to - something.  Wants to something.

“What?”

Sing folds his arms behind his head, pleased as could be.  “I checked in with the guys after meeting with Alex, and Nadia had made some.  I asked or an extra batch to take home for us.”

None of this is making sense, and Yut-Lung can barely hear Sing over the roar of blood in his ears. “I don’t understand.”

Sing drops his arms back to his side, the cocky expression giving way to something softer as he shrugs his shoulders, makes a point of staring straight ahead rather than at Yut-Lung.

“I know you love the mango pudding she makes, and I dunno.  Thought we could use it,” Sing says, using that voice where he’s trying and failing to sound casual.

The rest of the sentence goes unspoken. _Especially today of all days._

Even once the words register with Yut-Lung, all he can do is stare.  Sing went out of his way to pick up Yut-Lung’s favorite dessert, because he thought he could use it? That they both could stand for a sweet little pick-me-up?

Yut-Lung’s warm again, so, so warm, that he’s sure he’s flushing from his head to his toes, and there’s a fresh round of tears in his eyes as he leans back in, ignores Sing’s sound of protest as he presses his wet cheek to Sing’s. _Warm_ , Yut-Lung thinks, and he’s not sure if he’s referring to himself or Sing, but Sing’s got his arm tentatively back around him, and every nerve in his body is aflame with this heady, pleasurable heat.  A shiver rolls down his spine as he allows himself to ride out the newfound wave of contentment, and before he can stop himself, he presses his lips to Sing’s cheek, barely more than feather-light brush.  He’s not sure what possesses him to do it, but in this moment, aching deeply for the one he lost and clinging tight to the one he still has, it feels _right._

_I don’t deserve your kindness but thank you, thank you for for it, thank you for staying._

“You’re getting me all wet,” Sing grouses, but when Yut-Lung pulls back, he can see the blush high on Sing’s face, and something flutters in Yut-Lung’s stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Sorry,” Yut-Lung quietly mumbles, nearly slurring the word as he tries to wipe away his tears and residual makeup.

He can feel Sing’s eyes on him, assessing him.

“Alex says hi by the way.”

“No he doesn’t,” Yut-Lung says, voice flat as he drops his hands back to his lap.

“You’re right,” Sing says, and smile audible in his voice, “he says you’re an asshole.”

That has Yut-Lung snorting a laugh, bubbling past his lips unbidden.  Sing’s smiling when Yut-Lung looks at him, and when he stands, he extends a hand.

“Pudding?”

Yut-Lung shakily inhales, stares at Sing’s hand.

_Ash Lynx is dead._

_But you’ll be okay._

Yut-Lung manages a tiny smile as he takes Sing’s hand, squeezes it tight.

“Pudding.”

_You’re not alone._

 

 _My darkest night_  
_Your arms that hold me tight_


End file.
